The Choice

it has to be something you’ve never said out loud.”
She smiled faintly, nervously. “Are you going to make me actually
say these?”
“What you do with them is entirely up to you. You can tear them
up like confetti and Ęush them down the toilet, or set them on ĕre. I
just want you to get them out of your body by writing them down.”
She sat in silence for a few minutes and then began to write. Several
times she crossed something out. Finally she looked up.
“How do you feel?”
“A little dizzy.”
“Topsy-turvy?”
“Yes.”
“en it’s time to ĕll yourself back up again. But with the things
you usually give to other people. You’re going to put all that love and
protection and nurturing back inside.” I asked her to picture herself
getting very small, so tiny that she could climb inside her own ear. I
told her to crawl down the canal, and down her throat and esophagus,
all the way to her stomach. As she journeyed within, I asked her to put
her tiny loving hands on each part of her body that she passed. On her
lungs, her heart. On her spine, along the inside of each leg and arm. I
coached her to lay her compassionate hands on each organ, muscle,
bone, vein. “Bring love everywhere. Be your own unique, one-of-a-
kind nurturer,” I said.
It took awhile for her to settle in, to let her attention move away
from the surface experience. She kept shiing in her chair, brushing a
stray hair away from her forehead, clearing her throat. But then her
breathing deepened and slowed, her body became still. She grew
deeply relaxed as she ventured within, her face looked untroubled.
Before I guided her back out through her ear canal, I asked if there
was anything she wanted to tell me about what she had felt or
discovered inside.